The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus

  When I push open the door,

  he hangs up fast,

  whips his cell out of sight,

  and shoves it into his back pocket.

  “What’s up?” he asks,

  his face suddenly as blank

  as a slate wiped clean—

  a study in nonchalance.

  What’s up?

  I’d sure like to know!

  But if I ask my husband

  who he was talking to—

  I’m afraid he might tell me.

  SO I ASK HIM FOR MY SCISSORS, INSTEAD

  He mumbles an apology

  for forgetting to return them

  and starts rummaging through the chaos.

  A moment later,

  he cries, “Eureka!”

  and pops my scissors into my hand.

  I thank him gruffly, avoiding eye contact,

  then get the heck out of there—

  telling myself, as I dash down the stairs,

  that, surely, there’s a logical explanation

  for the way he rushed off the phone

  when I came in…

  I wrap the nightgown for my mother,

  in a sort of numbed zombie state,

  then race off to the post office,

  my thoughts boiling

  like a sauce in a pot

  with the heat turned up too high.

  Maybe

  Michael wasn’t talking

  to who I think he was talking to.

  I mean,

  it could have been anyone.

  Right?

  Or maybe I’m just kidding myself.

  Maybe I’m just as blind

  as all those wives you hear about—

  the ones who think their husbands

  are the straightest arrows ever,

  right up until the day they run off

  with the sexy mother

  of one of their daughter’s

  BFFs.

  OUR PEPPER TREE IS FAILING FAST

  She looks as if

  she’s undergoing

  chemotherapy.

  The bees

  have stopped humming

  in her branches.

  The squirrels

  no longer seek

  her company.

  Even

  the doves

  have deserted her.

  ON MOTHER’S DAY

  Samantha writes a parody

  of an E! True Hollywood Story—

  about me!

  Each insulting private joke

  makes me laugh harder

  than the one before it.

  But when I call my own mother

  to tell her I love her, she says, “Who is this?”

  And she isn’t kidding.

  I suck in a breath.

  My heart feels like

  an anchor has pierced it through.

  Who is this?

  Come on, Mom.

  It’s me—Holly—

  the one you used to whistle for

  when it was time to come home

  for dinner,

  the one who always kept her ear cocked

  listening for that whistle,

  its minor key soaring over olly olly oxen free…

  that whistle

  that I hated

  and that I yearned for,

  that whistle

  that could always find me,

  that seemed to sing my name,

  making me feel safe,

  feel loved,

  feel remembered.

  I ASK DR. HACK ABOUT MY MOTHER’S MEMORY LOSS

  He says

  it really is unfortunate

  that my mother has such a low tolerance

  for pain.

  Because if she’d been able

  to handle the pain,

  he wouldn’t have had to prescribe

  such huge doses of steroids.

  And if she hadn’t had to take

  such huge doses of steroids,

  then she wouldn’t have become

  psychotic.

  And if she hadn’t become psychotic,

  then she probably would have been able

  to remember who I was

  when I called her on the phone just now.

  “Can’t you start cutting back on the steroids?” I say.

  “Oh, it’s way too soon for that,” he says.

  “Besides, it’s complicated.”

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “Well, the bad news is that Myra’s memory loss

  might have nothing to do with the steroids.

  It could be the onset of dementia.

  Or maybe even Alzheimer’s.”

  “And the good news?” I say.

  “I wish there was some,” he says.

  “But getting old is no picnic.

  It’s not even a buffet!”

  And when he cracks up at his own horrid little joke,

  and lets loose with one of those

  migraine-triggering chuckles of his,

  I grit my teeth, say good-bye, head to the kitchen,

  and pop myself a massive bowl of popcorn.

  IN PRAISE OF POPCORN

  My mother used to read me

  a Little Lulu comic about how

  Lulu’s corn popper got so out of control

  that it filled her entire house with popcorn.

  I wanted to live in that house.

  I’ve always loved popcorn—

  loved the snow-flakey way

  no two pieces of it are exactly alike,

  loved the I-just-can’t-get-enough-ness of it,

  the oh-boy-we’re-at-the-movies-now-ness of it.

  I love it Jiffy Popped.

  I love it air popped.

  I love it microwaved.

  If someone made popcorn perfume,

  I’d dab it on the nape of my neck…

  My mother and I

  used to pop corn together.

  She’d pour in the Wesson oil and the kernels,

  then let me rock the lidded Farberware pan

  back and forth, back and forth…

  I loved the rainstick sound

  those rolling kernels made while I stood

  next to my mother in our toasty kitchen

  waiting for that first muffled ping!

  and the cacophonous chorus that followed…

  Maybe that’s why

  I still get such cravings for it—it’s not just

  the warm salty sparkle of it on my tongue,

  or that perfect nutty squeaky buttery crunch.

  It’s the way it carries me back

  to my mother.

  I WISH MY MOTHER WERE DOING BETTER

  I wish I could talk to her

  about what’s going on

  between Michael and Brandy.

  I wish I could talk to Michael

  about what’s going on

  between Michael and Brandy.

  I wish I could talk to him about

  the tiny scrap of balled-up torn paper

  I came across this morning

  when I was emptying

  the wastebasket

  up in his studio—

  that teensy little scrap

  that was hidden underneath

  all the other trash

  with only the last half

  of the very last line of a note

  scrawled on it in curly lavender letters:

  …so that Holly doesn’t find out!

  xoxo,

  I wish

  I could tell him

  it’s a little late for that.

  But that particular conversation

  will have to wait till Samantha

  goes to college.

  Because I flat out refuse

  to let my louse of a husband ruin

  my last precious months with my daughter.

  There’ll be plenty of time

  for me to fling that shit at the fan

>   after Samantha leaves.

  And until then,

  I’m just going to have to try real hard

  not to think about it.

  THE LAST TIME

  I’m in Sam’s room,

  helping her study for her French final,

  quizzing her on vocabulary words,

  relishing,

  as I always do,

  the quiet intimacy of this act.

  Monkey looks on from the toy box,

  his goofy grin belying

  the melancholy gleam in his eyes.

  “Avec plaisir,” I say.

  “With pleasure,” she translates.

  “Bravo!” I say.

  “Le premier fois,” I say.

  “The first time,” she translates.

  “Excellente!” I say.

  “Le dernier fois.”

  “The last time.”

  “Trés bon, mademoiselle!”

  And when she glances over at me and smiles,

  a rogue wave of nostalgia

  crashes down over my head.

  “Wow…” I murmur. “This is

  le dernier fois I will ever have le plaisir

  of helping you study for a French test.”

  A FEW MINUTES LATER

  Samantha takes a bathroom break.

  “Merde!” she screams, from behind the door.

  “The toilet’s gonna overflow!”

  “Mon dieu!” I cry,

  as she scrambles to switch off the tank,

  and I dash down the hall to grab the plunger.

  But when I hand it to her,

  she pushes out her lower lip

  and hands it right back to me.

  “Mais Maman,” she says,

  making puppy dog eyes

  at me,

  “this is le dernier fois

  you will ever have le plaisir

  of plunging my toilet for me!”

  I laugh,

  and shove the plunger right back

  into my darling daughter’s hands.

  BEFORE PROM

  Alice and I have been buzzing

  around Samantha since sunup—

  a pair

  of bustling fairy godmothers.

  Now

  our darling is ready:

  lashes lush,

  hair all curled and prommy,

  corsage fluttering on her wrist

  like a bouquet of butterflies…

  Sam whispers and giggles in our front yard

  with Wendy, Tess, and Laura—

  four pretty little girls

  playing dress up,

  teetering on their glittery heels,

  hiking up their strapless gowns,

  casting quick glances, hungry and shy,

  at their uneasy penguined dates.

  In the yard next door,

  Madison, perched on Jane’s hip,

  observes the proceedings

  with starry eyes.

  Michael and the other dads

  shoot videos

  while all of us prom moms,

  and Alice,

  snap hundreds of photos—

  a mob of misty-eyed paparazzi.

  HOLD ON–BACK UP A COUPLE OF STANZAS!

  “All the prom moms…?!”

  you’re probably thinking.

  “Isn’t Brandy one of them?”

  Yes.

  Brandy is

  one of them.

  And yes.

  It’s totally awkward

  having her here.

  And yes.

  She looks just as irritatingly stunning

  as ever.

  But no.

  I am not shooting daggers at her with my eyes.

  I am behaving like a mature adult.

  A mature adult who, at the moment,

  is calculating the best angle from which

  to accidentally trip Brandy—

  so that when she falls,

  she’ll land facedown in that mud puddle

  she happens to be standing right next to.

  JUST KIDDING

  Sort of.

  But it’s a moot point, anyhow.

  Because before I have a chance

  to set my evil plan into motion,

  all the kids

  start piling into the limo

  and Samantha takes me aside,

  somehow managing

  to extract a promise from me:

  that I will not call her on her cell phone.

  I tuck some cash

  and the phone number

  for a taxi into her new silver clutch.

  “In case you get tired

  before the others,” I tell her,

  “and want to come home before dawn.”

  She rolls her eyes,

  pecks me on the cheek,

  and hops into the limo.

  Then she yanks the door shut behind her,

  and glides away

  from me

  into her night.

  A SENTIMENTAL SILENCE DRIFTS DOWN OVER US

  Then Michael invites everyone inside

  for frozen margaritas,

  and shows us a video he whipped up

  to commemorate the occasion—

  vintage clips from the lifelong friendship

  of the fabulous foursome,

  from their kindergarten sleepovers

  to their sweet sixteens.

  But my eyes keep straying from the screen

  over to Brandy, who’s sitting on the couch

  right between her husband Colin

  and my husband.

  When an especially cute shot of Tess

  chasing a kitten flashes onto the screen,

  Brandy leans her head on Colin’s shoulder,

  who squeezes her knee and kisses her.

  From across the room,

  Alice catches me watching them

  and shoots me an I-told-you-

  those-rumors-weren’t-true look.

  But a second later, when Colin

  turns to say something to Wendy’s mom,

  Brandy seizes the opportunity

  to whisper stealthily into Michael’s ear!

  He keeps his eyes

  glued to the screen,

  but gives Brandy an almost

  imperceptible nudge with his elbow.

  She keep her eyes on the screen, too,

  but a secret smile flits across her face.

  It comes and goes so fast

  I think maybe I imagined it.

  But then I see that same smile

  dart across Michael’s face.

  I toss back the last of my margarita

  and glance over at Alice.

  She rolls her eyes at me

  and mouths, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Though I can’t help noticing

  that she looks a little pale.

  OH, WELL

  Even if Michael

  leaves me for Brandy,

  I’ll always have Clive Owen…

  I imagine his eyes,

  the color of night

  when the moon is full,

  imagine them penetrating mine,

  requesting permission

  to ravish…

  CliveOwenCliveOwenCliveOwen,

  taking no breaths between

  the whispered words of my mantra,

  shivering as my two front teeth

  brush against my lower lip

  to form that “v”

  and my mouth blooms out,

  like petals wanting a kiss,

  to form the “O”…

  CliveOwenCliveOwen

  Clive oh…oh…oh

  when?

  I once slept with a man

  just because his name

  was Tulio.

  A FEW DAYS AFTER PROM

  Alice invites me over for lunch.

  But when I bring up the subject of

  Michael and Brandy, she refuses to discuss it.
>
  She says

  she wants to talk about

  her problems for a change.

  And then she begins regaling me

  with tales of her latest

  Match.com dates from hell.

  Which are,

  in equal parts,

  enthralling and appalling.

  But behind Alice’s hilarious stories

  I sense a deep sadness lurking,

  a panicky desperation growing.

  So I pull my camera out of my purse and say,

  “I think it’s time for a new profile photo—

  one that captures your essential Alice-ness.”

  “Brilliant idea!” she cries.

  “Something that says,

  ‘I-am-not-a-jerk magnet.’”

  And the smile that I capture,

  when I click the shutter,